Robin-inspired Musings
by thedancingcrown
Summary: I'm hoping this will turn into a collection of drabbles/short snippets about the Robins. Please feel free to leave a prompt. (rating could change to T later, because Jason equals language, or so the math goes... XP)
1. Broken-winged Robin

**A/N:** I've been meaning to start writing drabbles for a while now, since they seem to be a lot of fun - reading them is enjoyable enough, at least. But I don't have a lot of ideas, and when something comes to me it can't really be confined to 100 words.  
>We've officially started exams now and while I <em>should<em> be studying, it's a long and arduous process that leaves me feeling drained and worried that I'm going to forget something, so I've finally decided to attempt the whole "drabble"-thing as some kind of stress-relief.  
><em>This<em> first story bit is not a drabble, but I'll get to _actual_ drabbles eventually - I just needed to get this idea of my chest first.

_Some things to note:_ you might need to suspend a little disbelief here. The only thing I'm even remotely certain of is Tim's age...maybe. I haven't read his first comics as Robin pre-reboot (...yet), so I know basically nothing about his parents (what I sort of know, I got from fanfiction, but with so many interpretations it's hard for me to know what's closest to canon and what's not), or exactly how far the Drake-estate is from the Wayne's, or what the Drake-estate possibly looks like *shrug* Just go with it. XP

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><p><strong>{Broken-winged Robin}<strong>

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><p>"Timothy," a heavy hand landed on the twelve year old boy's shoulder, nearly startling him out of his seat – a flash and a shutter-sound accompanying his startled cry.<p>

Tim looked up, cheeks colouring, whilst his father patted his back and chuckled good-naturedly.

"Good to see you concentrating so hard, son, but I hadn't meant to scare you that bad."

"It's, er…it's fine," Tim smiled weakly at his father, shifting a little in his seat and surreptitiously pulling his camera closer to his chest.

Jack Drake's smile was almost warm. He gestured at Tim's camera. "What are you doing, then, son? You've been out here for hours," it was only just not an outright rebuke.

Jack looked around at their expansive back yard and Tim's eyes made a sweep of the view as well.

He shrugged, partially in reply, and partially to shuck off his father's still-lingering hand. It felt very much like a commanding grip rather than a companionable one.

Tim was starting to wonder why his father had actually come out to find him – it could only mean his parents wanted him inside again for something. And Tim had only just started getting some good shots…

"Just testing out the new lens…zoom's great," he replied quietly, peering up at his father, still feeling the heat in his face from being caught so off guard before.

In Tim's defence, he'd had absolutely no reason to expect any kind of interruption – least of all from one of his parents.

"Photographing what, then?" it didn't sound like interest so much as… Tim couldn't describe.

"Robins, mostly…" he replied, only half-dishonest.

Jack nodded, seemingly thoughtful, before he finally released Tim in favour of pulling the second chair closer and plopping down almost right next to Tim.

Tim tried not to stare. Or gape.

"Bird-watching," almost a derisive snort. "An idle past-time, don't you think, son?"

Oh. It was to better lecture, then.

Oh well.

"Not _really_," Tim hedged. "It's…like people-watching. I'm…honing my observation skills on a simpler target, is all," Tim shrugged, tried a smile. "Plus, I…have to test the lens somehow," he shifted the camera in his grip in indication, and ducked his head almost instinctively – mentally berating himself; his mother didn't approve of that.

"What have you taken so far, then?" his father questioned, gaze sweeping across the lawn again. "I don't see any robins…"

"They're by the trees mostly," Tim replied, slipping too easily into the lie, feeling too comfortable there. "And the fountain. I got a really good shot before…but they've flown off by now," he added, gaze lingering on the fountain several miles down the way, in the centre of his mother's rose garden than wasn't _really_ hers at all.

Jack scratched at his jaw, leaned forward across the table and gestured to Tim's camera, "Let's see, then."

"Oh," Tim said, a little surprised, quickly switching to his photos and flitting through them on the screen in search of the only real birds he'd taken. "It's really just the one…" finding the red-breasted robins, filling up the entirety of the screen (the zoom really was great), one holding it's wing awkwardly while the other seemed to fuss over the smaller bird where they perched on the fountain's edge, Tim moved his camera around for Jack to see.

He didn't relinquish it to his father's hold even as the older man laid a hand on it as if to take it, though.

"Hmmm…fair enough," he mused, almost begrudgingly. "What have you observed, then?"

"It has a bad wing," Tim leaned a little closer to point. "See?"

Jack squinted, then huffed, "If you say so," he stood abruptly, and Tim pulled his camera back to his side. "Come inside soon," meaning anywhere between now and the next two minutes. "Your mother and I have news."

"Okay," Tim said, but the man was already crossing the porch towards the back door.

Tim only followed him with his eyes for a moment before he turned back in his seat, raising the camera to his eye and found the fountain.

Turning the lens to zoom in as far as it would go he shifted his sights to the trees just beyond.

He adjusted the focus, bringing the deep green leaves into perspective until he found the usual gap to peer through, and changed the focus again to concentrate on the image beyond the trees.

Past the edge of the Drake-estate, coming slowly into view, was their neighbour's back yard – the Wayne estate.

Coincidentally perched in perfect view of Tim's camera, was a lanky dark-haired young man, sitting cross-legged on the lawn, a wide smile on his face.

Tim clicked the shutter.

Dick Grayson was Mr Wayne's ward, visiting from Blüdhaven, Tim knew. Had been for a few weeks.

Dick laughed, and Tim could only imagine what it sounded like, while he tried to grab hold of the boy next to him – Jason Todd, Mr Wayne's adopted son.

Another press of the shutter-button.

Jason Todd was a little older than Tim, with the same dark hair as Dick, and Tim himself, but Tim hardly ever saw him smile at anyone unless it was a smirk or a sneer, or an arrogant grin.

Or one _other_, but even that was nothing like Dick's – bright and open.

Jason Todd tucked his arm close to his chest and Dick spoke, though Tim couldn't tell what he was saying, and eventually the younger boy rolled his eyes and relinquished his arm to the older man's hold.

Dick grasped it, gentle but enthusiastic, and poised a thick dark marker above the blank white cast Jason Todd's broken arm was encased in.

His hand moved, doodling something Tim couldn't see with the angle Dick was working from, but Tim took the picture anyway. Jason Todd scowled, but Tim focused on his face and waited patiently.

Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long for the smallest, rarest of almost-smiles to grace the boy's lips, and, eternally satisfied, Tim pressed the button one last time.

The shutter sounded, and Tim watched through the advanced zoom for only a moment more before he lowered the camera and switched it off.

Time to face his parents. With any luck they were headed off to another foreign country for some work-related thing or another, and Tim could return to his perch and continue Robin-watching in awe-filled isolation.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading, and please feel free to review :) critisism on characterization and general writing or whatnot is always appreciated. I have a total of _three_ ideas for this, so far - this one included - as a side - so _please_ don't hesitate to leave a prompt or I'm afraid these will end up being few and far between or not at all...


	2. One Day I Thought I Saw Blood

**A/N: **Thanks so much to everyone who has faved/followed, and the few reviews! :)  
>My exams are finished, and apparently I didn't need any more "stress-relief" beyond the previous story. XP<br>_But_, this was inspired by my first exam - Language; this was part of the comprehension section - so here's another snippet for you. :)

**_Important Disclaimer: _**_The idea surrounding this story is based on _**Zirk van der Berg's _Eendag dag ek ek sien_****_ bloed_** _(that basically translates to the chapter title) , and I take no credit for the setup of this piece, the intricate ideas and implications and insinuations behind it, or any of the characters either (those belong to_ **DC comics**_)._

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><p><strong>{One Day I Thought I Saw Blood}<strong>

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><p>I brought sandwiches to school for Dick Grayson. He and his father lived off a charity fund set up by the Wayne Foundation for struggling families in Gotham's more under-privileged neighbourhoods. People said the accident that killed Dick's mother and crippled his father, was no accident.<p>

Dick's family was originally from out of town, just the three of them.

_The Flying Graysons_ were a trapeze act for Haly's Circus. The circus train rolled into Gotham in the middle of the Festive Season and dampened everyone's holiday spirits when the Graysons finished off the show with their daring trapeze act – the two adults somersaulting simultaneously at one point during the routine, and grabbing hold of their trapezes once more, only to find ropes snapping, their gravity-defying ties severed and the pull of the earth forcing them down.

The net below was sabotaged as well, and Dick's father, who hit it first, broke the tension with his weight and snapped a leg at an odd, irreparable angle. Dick's mother, with no net to break her fall, fell to her death.

The Grayson pair stayed behind in Gotham, thus, charity cases for billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne – Dick's father no longer able to work for the circus and too grief-stricken and traumatized to let Dick continue performing.

Apparently, people said, the "accident" had been a warning for the circus, from crime lord Zucco, in an attempt to convince Mister Haly the circus _needed_ to pay protection money. But that's just what people said. The circus didn't perform a second night that year.

Or so I was told.

I don't know.

All I _do know_ is that Dick was always hungry, and I was always bringing him sandwiches. He was a little tall for his age, but then he sort of got stuck there and stayed short later on. He was thin and wiry, and always covered in scrapes and scabs – also on his face. We sort of admired him and longed to be as tough as we thought he was.

During break, we would gather around him in a cluster, by the jungle gym, egging him on to show us his stunt – "Come _on_, Dick, _show us!_"

Dick would duck his head a little, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth, before he'd glance at me and I'd nod and he'd perform the stunt.

We'd stand back a little, in a half-circle around him. Dick would look around, catching sight of each of us, meeting eyes with everyone, his smile almost evident. He'd kick the biggest pebbles on the ground between us and him, so they bounced off to the side, before stepping onto the second-lowest rung of the jungle gym ladder behind him. Clinging to it with one hand, he'd grin – big and wide and bright – at his audience, taking a deep bow with his free arm bent in front of his waist.

Sometimes, we'd clap a little.

Coming up, his face would be serious again, only the faintest little smile at the corner of it.

He would stand completely unmoving, _stiff_, with his arms tight against his sides and his hands clenched into fists.

We would watch, wide-eyed.

Dick would lean forward, painstakingly slow, his body straight as a rod, fingers clutching at the seams of his pants.

It always goes slow, at first. His heels lift a little, as much as they can on the jungle gym's pipe-like step – sometimes, he actually stands on the tiptoes of his abused shoes.

He picks up speed, then, almost abruptly.

_Sometimes_ – on the days we clap a little – he quickly spreads his arms in those last moments, and for a fleeting, frozen second, he appears to be _flying_ off the jungle gym step—

And then he hits the ground with a loud _thud_, face on the gravel.

There's a loud, joyous cheer. Dick rolls over, and stretches out his hand to take his sandwich from me, face split with a grin.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading! Dick replaces a little boy named Japie (pronounced like J.P) Mustard in my story. There's no jungle gym in the original, and obviously none of Dick's background - instead, the Mustard family is big and Japie's dad lost his legs to a train (the anonymous story-teller says the townsfolk believe he'd intentionally got them cut off) and they live off his pension. Japie's dad was apparently also a boxer in his youth. What I _remember _(because I can't find my notes...) from my exam, is that this is a realistic tale, written in the 1940's, I think, and is basically sort of a protestation against bullying, or, it's just meant to be the kind of story kids and/or their parents/guardians/teachers can relate to - either to Japie, the story-teller, or just the situation as a whole.


	3. Song-inspired Snippets

**A/N: **Suspend a little disbelief as you will for these ones (especially maybe the last one *shrug* it's pretty AU).  
>I'm thinking about just adding <em>Stitch Talk<em> and _Foot to Face_ and _30 Days_ to these chapters, since they're all single pieces and they're all about one Robin or another, but they're _way over there, on their own_, and my OCD just can't take it...

Thanks for reading! :)

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><p><strong>{Red Hands}<br>**_Walk off the Earth_

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><p><em>"I realize that I've got red hands, I wanna change this<br>"Don't ask me why I choose to lie, I stay blind, oh  
>"It's clear to me that you are fuming too, your accusations are burning through<em>

_"That gun is loaded, but it's not in my hand_  
><em>"The fire burns, I'm not the one with the match, man<em>  
><em>"That gun is loaded, but it's not in my hand."<em>

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><p>"It wasn't <em>necessary<em>, Jason," Tim says. He's calm, despite the fierce tone, because there's really no other way to be with Jason less you'd like to set him off. Tim wouldn't.

He still _needs_ to get his point across, though.

If they're going to see this case through, Jason has to know Tim expects him to stop killing every other low-life they rough-up for intel.

Jason, of _course_, knows precisely what Tim is referring to, and doesn't even bother playing dumb.

"Course it was, or I wouldn't've done it," he says easily, and steamrolls right over Tim's following protest as he continues, "Some scumbags just don't _deserve_ seconds, Timmy," Tim sort of bristles at the nickname, but lets it go.

Jason keeps talking even as he shuts the old window, drops the cheap blinds and peers through them before shutting those, too. "All the _kids_…" he sounds sort of distant as he speaks, a little lost in a memory, maybe, and it inspires Tim to silence. "The girls, the boys…the _lives_. You can't fault me for that, Tim," only at the end Jason looks over at him.

Tim straightens a little, eyes narrowing, as he contemplates a reaction.

"Besides," Jason adds before Tim can settle on a response, and he sounds a little more like himself. "If you _wanted_ to stop me, you should've tried."

"I did," Tim replies at once, but it's one of those automatic reactions people have when they're accused of something and Tim doesn't feel it.

Jason snorts, goes back to peering through the blinds, keeping a gap open with two fingers. "Should've tried harder, baby bird."

Tim doesn't know how to argue against that.

If he _wants _to.

Maybe Jason's not wrong.

Maybe Tim's crossed a line.

Jason had abandoned his gloves and his hood on the counter nearby, and Tim's eyes trace the curves of his exposed knuckles, for a moment convinced they're red and bloody – had Jason hit _that_ hard?

But, Tim blinks, and it's gone.

Compelled, he looks down at his own palms, the back of his hands – still glove-clad.

"You see it, too, don't you?" Jason's voice is quiet again.

His hands drift into Tim's vision, hovering palms-up above Tim's.

"Red hands…?"

Tim shudders.

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><p><strong>{Let me Fall}<br>**_Josh Groban_

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><p><em>"I will dance so freely<br>"Holding on to no one  
>"You can hold me only<br>"If you too will fall  
>"Away from all these<br>"Useless fears and chains_

_"Someone I am  
>"Is waiting for my courage<br>"The one I want  
>"The one I will become<br>"Will catch me_

_"So let me fall  
>"If I must fall<br>"I won't heed your warnings  
>"I won't hear."<em>

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><p>Dick knows Bruce means it well.<p>

He knows his new guardian is only worried.

But…

Bruce doesn't _understand_.

Dick doesn't _want_ to stop doing this.

He doesn't want to be _afraid_ of it, for the rest of his life, because of a crime directed at his family out of sheer convenience.

His parents' memory deserve more than that, Dick thinks.

They had taught him to be strong.

They had taught him to be free.

They had taught him to be himself, and they had allowed him to discover who that was.

And _this_ was it.

Dick refused to bury this side of him in grief and longing and terror and _overwhelming_ sadness, because he was alone now. Because they picked the wrong town to perform in. Because of something no one could have seen coming, and…no one could have prevented.

Bruce insisted on that – Dick was only a kid, who _listened_ to a kid? No one had, and Dick's parents were dead now. It was tragic, and everyone said so, and it made Dick sad – in his _soul_ – but—

It wasn't Dick's fault.

Batman reiterated the statement, even as _he'd_ listened.

Distantly, Dick wonders what Batman would think of this…?

Does Gotham's Dark Knight have a family waiting at home? Do they share him with the night? Or…is he a little like Dick? And Bruce?

Alone now.

Were his parents vigilantes, too?

Is he keeping their memory alive the way Dick wants to with his parents' as well?

That's why Dick is here.

That's why his chalked and bandaged hands grip the trapeze as tightly as they can, why the tips of his toes curl around the edge of the platform he's on.

He doesn't _want_ to be afraid of this.

That's why he'd ignored Bruce's warning – to think about it, thoroughly.

Because Dick doesn't _want_ to think about it.

He's too afraid he'd change his mind.

He doesn't _want_ to change his mind.

So Dick had snuck off, and found himself now at the scene of the crime – what had been _home_ for him not too long ago.

He needs to do this, though, and he knows of no other place to do it at.

Bruce doesn't know, and Dick doesn't want to think about how disappointed he might be if he finds out.

For the moment, Dick doesn't want to care about that.

He _misses this_. _Too much_.

And he doesn't want to become afraid of it.

He has to be free again.

He needs to fly, even if he flies alone.

It's a rush, dropping from the platform, feeling the air sift swiftly past his bare arms and legs, as if he's being carried by it.

But when the rope snaps it's no longer supporting him in his flight, it is instead letting him go, and he falls – _falls_ through it.

He's upside down, somehow, staring at the top of the tent, where it curves in elegant waves, all coming together at the highest point, and he wonders, idly, if that was the last thing his parents had seen as well.

Or was it him? – on the platform just at the edge of his vision.

For a moment, he thinks he can see himself sitting there – stunned and silent and staring and _afraid_.

Almost at once he's no longer falling, the shifting air around him replaced with a strong, solid grip – arms enveloping all of him, holding him close, burying his face into a broad chest.

He's sniffling, and clutching at fabric and armour, and it's dark, and he's crying, and when he speaks he barely hears himself, voice cracking and small, whispering brokenly, "What are you doing here…?"

"Oh, Dickie… _Chum_, you didn't think I'd let you fall?"

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><p><strong>{I'm Already There}<br>**_Lonestar_

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><p><em>"A little voice came on the phone<br>"Said _"Daddy when you coming home"_  
>"He said the first thing that came to his mind<em>

_"I'm already there  
>"Take a look around<br>"I'm the sunshine in your hair  
>"I'm the shadow on the ground<br>"I'm the whisper in the wind  
>"I'm your imaginary friend<br>"And I know I'm in your prayers  
>"Oh I'm already there."<em>

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><p>It's Damian's voice on the other end when Alfred relinquishes the phone to "the children, Master Bruce", and the nine year old wastes no time in getting to the point, "Father. I demand to know when you will be home."<p>

The corner of his mouth twitches into a little smirk, as it so often does around his youngest.

_"He only just got there, doofus," _Bruce can hear in the background and it sounds like Jason, of course.

_"Put it on speaker, Little D,"_ Dick is saying, even as Damian _Tt_'s in response to Jason.

"What?" he snaps at Dick then and his voice is a little further away when he next says, "How?" leading Bruce to believe he's regarding the phone with a critical eye now. Bruce can almost see it.

_"Like this!" _Timmy pipes up – for all that he's older than Damian and no longer the youngest, Tim will always be _little Timmy_.

"Get _off_, Drake! I can do it," Damian snaps – there's a muffled _thump_ and a yelp, and then Jason's voice snapping—

_"Hey! That was uncalled for, you little demon—"_

_"Dami—"_

"I did not _need_ his assistance."

_ "It's okay…"_

_"Jay, don't—"_

"Like hell it is!"

"Tt."

"Language, Jason," Bruce admonishes, at the same time as Alfred. He's on speaker now, and can hear Jason clearly even as he mutters his apology.

It's followed by a moment of silence, and Bruce sighs – carefully _away_ from the phone.

"So…how's the weather, Bruce?" Dick finally asks, and Bruce can imagine his eldest – already fourteen, almost fifteen – in the middle of his brothers all huddled together, a hand somehow on each of them.

Bruce smiles knowingly, certain Dick had given them all dirty looks, condemning them to silent repentance for having argued. "It's fine," he replies.

"That's nice," Dick says cheerfully, and Bruce can only imagine Jason or Tim – or both – rolling their eyes at him.

But Damian's attention is all for the phone, and he almost-snaps again even as Dick's finished speaking, "Father."

There's more of a pause this time, and Bruce imagines Damian's shoulders only a _little_ hunched – never as much as Tim's would be – as he regards the phone in his small hands; a bit self-conscious with all his brothers' eyes on him, and in light of Jason's chiding after he'd first raised the question. But the boy ploughs through regardless, "_When_ will you be home…?"

Jason wasn't wrong. He had only _just_ arrived – hence the call.

The next week will be spent drifting from one meeting to the next, but, much as he dislikes the idea – and dislikes being so far away from his sons, from his _family_ – and has no enthusiasm for the experience, it _needs_ to be done. There's really no way around it.

He'd explained all this to each of them – separately and together, and once more for emphasis and in case – but apparently Damian needs to hear it again.

He'd never been away from his youngest this long, before. Part of him hadn't wanted to think too hard on it, since there was hardly a thing he could do about it.

"…Father…?" Damian's voice is a whisper, and Bruce realized he'd let the silence drag on too long.

The other boys aren't saying anything either. Waiting for him. Maybe they all need to hear it again.

Maybe they need to hear…something else.

"I'm already there. Damian."

"_What?_" it's a confused little gasp, and Bruce can see Damian's big blue eyes turn bigger and bluer.

"Well, _metaphorically_," he amends. Someone snorts in the background, and it's a bit of a toss between Alfred and Jason, if it isn't the both of them.

"I…do not understand," Damian mumbles, voice small, and uncertain, and it's Dick making a quiet _cooing_ sort of noise that makes Bruce think Damian is blushing.

It's all but confirmed when Damian hisses almost inaudibly, "_Shut up, Grayson_."

"Come on, Bruce," Jason says, a laugh in his tone. "Explain this one, cause I can't wait to hear it."

Tim hums in agreement.

"Please, Father," Damian adds quietly, and Dick, who'd been giggling in the background after Damian's rebuke, is silent and listening now as well.

"Well…let's see," Bruce muses. "I might be far away, Damian, but…I'm…_in_ so many things around you.

"I'm in Dick's every hug,"

A startled yelp and a little laugh comes through over the line, and Bruce has no doubt Dick's grabbed Damian from behind. There's no protest from the younger boy he can hear and Bruce chooses to believe it's because there isn't any at all.

"I'm in Jason's strong hand on your shoulder," Bruce continues, and there's no indication Jason's moved, but Bruce hopes he has.

"I'm in Tim's adorable little scowl when you're being impossible."

There are twin murmurs of _"I'm never impossible"_ and _"My scowl's not adorable"_ (followed by _"Bruce is exaggerating, Little D"_ and _"Yes, it is, baby bird"_), and Bruce doesn't realize he's _grinning_ at the floral wallpaper of his hotel room.

"I'm in Alfred's patience," Bruce adds when the boys are quiet again. Alfred's agreeable hum is clear in the background.

Bruce's smile turns soft.

"And…I'm in your _heart_, Damian.

"Aren't I?"

"_Yes_, Father," the boy says at once, his tone slightly appalled that there could ever be any doubt. "_Always_, Father."

"As you are in mine," Bruce says. "Each of you."

"Yes, Father…" Damian repeats, quietly.

"You're in our hearts, too, Bruce," Dick adds.

"Right next to the chilli dogs," Jason's grinning, Bruce can tell.

"Indeed, Master Bruce."

"Yeah, mine too," Tim's addition is quiet but firm, and Bruce imagines the five of them – Alfred included, of course – clustered together in the hall, Damian holding the phone and Dick and Jason with broad smiles on their faces, the others' a little more subdued.

Bruce smiles as well, and lets the moment and the silence drag on.

"Father?" Damian breaks the spell, but the image still lingers a little behind Bruce's eyes.

"Yes, Damian?"

"_Metaphorically_," he says. "We're…we're all there, too."

"I know, son. I know."


End file.
